


Steal My Breath Away

by QuickSilverFox3



Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: All tags do not apply to all drabbles, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Dissociation, Drabble Collection, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Whump, Whumptober 2020, suffocation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26745382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickSilverFox3/pseuds/QuickSilverFox3
Summary: "Your first death is never a good one."[10 x drabbles: No 1. LET’S HANG OUT SOMETIME Waking Up Restrained | Shackled | Hanging]
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Nile Freeman, Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Original Male Character(s), Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Nile Freeman, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Booker | Sebastien le Livre's Wife, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947016
Comments: 4
Kudos: 80
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Steal My Breath Away

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned all of the tags don't apply to all of the drabbles, so if I've missed anything please let me know ^^

“Your first death is never a good one.” 

Andy’s voice was pitched low—tired in a way she hadn’t sounded in centuries—and Nile pulled in another gasping breath, hands braced against her knees as she fought the urge to run. Booker didn’t move, curled up on his side beneath a heavy quilt—trying to keep himself in this century rather than wander down the black memories of what could have been—as he felt the ghost of a rope curl around his neck. He almost preferred the nights he dreamed of Quynh: drowning was different to hanging, although both ended the same way.

* * *

Booker was dreaming—the world is hazy around him, like syrup spreading over his tongue—but he can’t find it in himself to care. 

“What heavy thoughts are brewing, love?” 

His wife didn’t give him a chance to answer as she slipped onto his lap, her skirts gathered up before she settled them around them both. She cupped his face, thumb rasping against the rough stubble on his cheek as she drew her long braid to one side, then around his neck. 

The rough fibre of rope was a distant shock as the world fell away, and he was hanging once more.

* * *

Nile blinked awake, bright light piercing her skull. She had died—could feel the faint itch of closing wounds at the base of her neck, across her hip. Heavy leather cuffs pressed against her wrists and ankles—pulled too tight, fingers numb and unwieldy—and she pulled fruitlessly at them for a few seconds.

Old flashes of fear stirred in her stomach, and she thumped her head against the table in frustration.

“Well, now there’s a chance of getting out.”

Nile raised her head to glare at Booker, animosity falling away when she saw him, bloodied and broken, but smiling softly at her.

* * *

“I will kill them.”

Nicky’s voice was flat, muffled as he whispered the prayer and promise against Joe’s cooling skin. Andy’s lips still moved soundlessly in a count she would continue until her own death if needed, Quynh’s hands pressed against the shallow cut on her side. 

Carefully, reverently, Nicky raised Joe’s head to pull the garotte free, tossing it to one side with a careless flick of his wrist. 

“Please, please,  _ please _ .” Nicky bent to kiss Joe’s lips, twisting to press their foreheads together, staring as unrelenting tears rolled down his cheeks. “Please come back to me, my love.”

* * *

Quynh bared her bloodied teeth at the men who filed into the room, watching their faces blanch, their eyes skittering away from her as they turned towards the priest—black robed and red faced—standing in the centre of the room. Andy slumped unconscious next to her, breath warm and fast against Quynh’s neck, wrists locked back into the iron shackles. 

The priest stepped forward, hands raised, and Quynh yanked on her shackles, sending the chain rattling, snapping her teeth at the man. Fresh blood spilled down her wrists, but she grinned at her captors, watching the colour flee the priest’s face. 

* * *

Yusuf woke in fragmented inches: firelight dancing against an ink black sky, the press of rough rope against his wrists, iron coating his tongue. Nicolo lay still by his feet, blood slowly oozing from the sword plunged through his chest, and for that the men they had been guarding would die.

He began to pull against his bonds, gritting his teeth against the pain, muscles shifting and straining. Nicolo’s first rasping breath came just as the rope slipped from his bloody hands. Yusuf pulled the sword free, Nicolo’s blood staining the metal, hands flying up reflexively, with a broken cry.

* * *

“I should have known.”

Andromache could already feel the tension in her shoulders and thighs, ropes pulled too tight against the crude structures anchoring them to the wall. It was a rushed betrayal, but that didn’t remove the sting.

“I’m sorry,” John said—keeping his distance from her as he pulled up a chair and sat down—passing the knife backwards and forwards between clumsy fingers. 

“I just need a little bit,” he explained, placing the cold edge of a bottle against her leg, shakily pressing the knife blade to her skin. “I’m sorry. I am so sorry, but I have to.”

* * *

“Nicolo? Nicolo, wake up please.”

“I’m here.” Nicky spat out a mouthful of blood, feeling the ache of bones reforming, but Yusuf’s pleas cut deeper than any blade could hope to. The room was dark, and his hands were locked behind his back, cold metal biting into his wrists, but he stretched forward. 

Yusuf smelt like the inks he favoured—iron mixed with a hint of flowers—and Nicky pressed his face into the hollow of Yusuf’s throat, kissing the skin he could reach with a sigh. He could taste the blood, but they were together. It could be borne, for now. 

* * *

Joe coughed as he fell back into life, the cold embrace of death chased away by blinding burning pain. His lungs were drawn tight in his chest, metal biting into his wrists—too weak to push himself back up, strength fallen away from him during one of his previous deaths. 

The chain around his neck was drawn tight, an endless loop of agony ripping the breath from his lungs even as it held him in place—unable to get away, unable to do anything but die. Dimly, as the world faded away again, he heard Nicky yelling, struggling against his own bonds.

* * *

Booker kicked out, trying to steady himself on the fragmenting scaffolding even as the rope tightened around his neck. A stupid accident, and one he could survive, but the sensation of rope sent his mind blank with panic. He couldn’t die again like this.

“Booker!”

Something fell, objects rolling across the floor as he wheezed, before strong arms grabbed hold of his legs, lifting him up and he could finally breathe—tiny gasps.

“We’ve got you,” Nicky gasped, adjusting Booker’s weight as Joe scrambled up the scaffolding, knife in hand. “Don’t worry, we’ve got you. Breathe, you’re going to be okay.”


End file.
